Imagining Things
by Squaresque
Summary: Arthur, surprisingly less dense than usual, suspects that Merlin did something during their game of dice, even if he can't quite put his finger on what it was. Merlin, for his part, insists he's imagining things. Set in episode 12, T for mild slash!


**Hello all! I haven't written since forever and I think I shall stick to oneshots, since I evidently have no commitment to chaptered fics. Review if you're nice! (Or if you're not.)**

**I don't own Merlin! Never will, never did.**

**(This is set after the first part of Season 5, Episode 12, where Merlin arguably abused his magic to manipulate dice. Tsk.)**

* * *

Arthur had never been much of a gambler. Oh, he still placed the occasional bet with his closest knights, and before Morgana had turned into a homicidal High Priestess with dreadfully bad hair they'd used the seat at the dinner table closest to Uther Pendragon as a forfeit, but he'd never got more serious than that about the whole deal. He didn't need to win any money, to begin with, and he was certain that his father would all but disown a son who might use the crown jewels as collateral.

So he was a little bemused as to why he was standing, completely broke, in the middle of a cosy little tavern called The Rising Sun (after sunset, mind you), having just lost all his coins to his own manservant.

"Thank you, sire," grinned Merlin. A lovely clinking sound came from his bulging pockets whenever he moved.

Arthur glared murderously at him. The spectators who had gathered to watch a nobleman humiliated (all in good fun, of course) guffawed even louder, clutching their sides and accidentally inhaling their beer instead of swallowing it.

"Enjoy it while you can, Merlin," the king intoned dryly. "I'd like to see how your winnings will help you muck out the stables tomorrow morning. By no means let your spirits be dampened by six inches of fermenting filth."

Yet, not even this threat could wipe the broad smile off Merlin's face – and despite himself, Arthur softened slightly. It reminded him of more carefree days before he'd had to bear the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders, days which they'd spent bickering and learning to properly like each other. After Arthur had ascended the throne, Merlin had grown more solemn, more preoccupied, and perhaps a little less smart-mouthed. Arthur didn't see why a manservant's duty should by extension grow in burden, but he sometimes wanted to shake the shadow off the boy's face, restoring it to mirth and youthful innocence.

That was why he punctuated many of his serious commands with pleasant insults and jibes about Merlin's ineptitude. Undeniably, a strange way to show affection, but no one questioned their king.

"We should get going, sire," said Merlin, struggling not to laugh at the grudging expression on Arthur's face. He had carded a hand through his golden hair in frustration, and a few stray strands remained poised in the air, an elegant departure from the floppiness of their counterparts.

"Yes, well, there's really no reason to stay, is there, since you've swindled me of my worldly possessions," grumbled Arthur, nodding farewell to the other patrons as they stepped out into the cold night.

Merlin opened his mouth to point out why this was a gross exaggeration, but Arthur overrode him.

"And I don't care what you would have me believe, Merlin, you did _something_ back there." He cast a sidelong glance at his friend, who was examining the cobblestones with great interest. "That wasn't phenomenal luck, that was – it was –"

"Cheating?" suggested Merlin with a snort. "Arthur, do you honestly believe that my coughing –"

"It wasn't your annoying throat clearing, Merlin," snapped Arthur, "although maybe if you stopped wearing that absolutely ridiculous scarf, your neck wouldn't feel so tickled to begin with."

This made no sense whatsoever. Arthur must have realised, because it was his turn to clear his throat and mumble something decidedly vulgar. Merlin stifled a snigger, and they walked in silence for a while more, their path illuminated by pearly moonlight, the chilly wind turning their cheeks pink.

Then Arthur stopped abruptly in the middle of an alleyway and spun to face Merlin, who blinked in astonishment.

"I know what the problem is," he declared.

"I'm all ears, sire," shrugged Merlin agreeably.

"You certainly are," muttered Arthur, eyeing the shorter boy's ears, which were slightly bigger than normal and which Arthur secretly! found very endearing.

"The problem," he continued loudly, "is that you think I'm _dense_."

That was certainly unexpected. Merlin covered up his surprise with another wide grin. "You've seen right through me, sire."

Again Arthur ignored him. "You think I can't figure it out, don't you? You think your party tricks are beyond me. You think that, just because I spend more time jousting and sparring and going horse-riding than you do, I have the intellectual capacity of a five year old!"

"Well, I wouldn't say _five_ –"

"But it might surprise you, Merlin, that I did notice there was something different about you when you were throwing those dice." Merlin's stomach dropped as Arthur frowned to himself in concentration. "I just can't quite put my finger on it…"

In fact, the finger in question had been prodding Merlin's chest with every other word, so that Merlin had been forced to retreat up against the wall for fear of painful bruising. Arthur now loomed over him, his clear blue gaze piercing, and for the first time Merlin felt a shade of panic that he might have used his magic too brashly, and spoilt everything, just when they were so close to the final battle.

So he did his best to make his eyes as wide and confused as possible, hoping Arthur would see genuine bewilderment in them, and back off.

This was a mistake, Merlin decided, a split second too late.

"Your eyes," Arthur breathed, leaning in suddenly and lifting Merlin's chin with one gloved hand so that he couldn't look away. "Merlin, your eyes are blue, but – but just now I could have sworn – the colour –"

To Merlin's horror, realisation was dawning on Arthur's face as his mind connected the dots. Still, the king's train of thought was impeded by disbelief (or was it denial?). Merlin, in a flash of desperate inspiration, took the only option available, which would involve capitalizing on their awkward position, with Arthur's face inches from his own.

"Oh look, a griffin!" he called wildly. Arthur glanced over his shoulder, momentarily distracted, and as he turned back Merlin leaned forwards and kissed him.

Arthur froze at the touch of Merlin's lips on his. Everything seemed to freeze – the moon hanging above them, the shadowy street slashed with silver, the passing of time. A part of him wanted to demand _why exactly, Merlin, are you kissing me as if I were a _girl, but that would involve moving, and Arthur didn't want to move. Another part of him wanted to point out that Guinevre was a lot better at it than Merlin was, but Arthur discovered that he actually liked the difference, the shy hesitancy that lent a softness to the kiss, and what did this have to do with Gwen, anyway? This was about him and Merlin.

Merlin, for his part, felt certain that when Kilgharrah repeatedly emphasized that his and Arthur's fates were intertwined, this was _not _what the wise old dragon had had in mind.

"You know you're imagining things, don't you?" he mumbled against Arthur's lips, which seemed in no hurry to leave his own.

"Am I?" asked Arthur vaguely.

"Yeah," whispered Merlin. "About the gambling, and about – about me. It was a trick of the firelight, Arthur, I –"

"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur responded eloquently, his brain no longer in any mood to tackle complex mysteries.

"You're imagining this too, you know," murmured Merlin, an inexplicable pang of sadness hitting him as he allowed his fingers to entangle themselves in Arthur's hair, pulling him deeper into the kiss even as the magic coursed down his arm into his fingertips.

"No, I'm not," protested Arthur, pulling back slightly. "Merlin, what –"

The power pulsed in Merlin and Arthur slumped against his shoulder, face buried in the objectionable red neck scarf, out like a light and snoring gently. He was heavy enough to make Merlin slide a few more inches down the wall.

"I don't think you're dense, you know," he said quietly to his sleeping master? friend? Merlin didn't know anymore. "After all, good kings can hardly be stupid, and you, Arthur… you're a great king."

* * *

Arthur Pendragon woke up in bed the next day, feeling indignant that he had lost all his money to Merlin but otherwise completely unaware of what had transpired the night before. He also forgot to instruct his manservant to muck out the stables, in light of more important events, such as a war engulfing the entire kingdom.

But even Merlin's magic couldn't suppress the sharp sting of betrayal when he told Arthur that he wouldn't be accompanying him for this one, last battle, after _all _they'd been through. And it definitely couldn't erase the faint memories that stirred within Arthur of blue eyes glowing golden, and a kiss that had never happened.

So Arthur knew, deep down, that there was more to Merlin than met the eye, and more to his request than a coward's fear of dying.

He'd bet his life on it.


End file.
